


This Time

by Toruviel



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Author is Bitter, CA:CW - Freeform, Civil War Team Iron Man, F/M, Gen, In a way, No Beta, Politics, Swearing, Time Travel, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Villain Tony Stark, Violence, WIP, but no bashing, hopefully, perhaps, realism (as much as possible)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 05:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20168785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toruviel/pseuds/Toruviel
Summary: He had always known he wasn't a good man. He was a futurist and an engineer and a businessman, he lived by the cost-benefit analysis. He had accepted that one day Iron Man would meet a villain he couldn’t outsmart or overpower, that he would die fighting. But by gods, he did not think he would die like that, cold and alone and betrayed-Stark men are made of iron. He would get out of here and then he'd make them all regret ever hearing his fucking name.***Tony Stark dies in a Syberian bunker. He wakes up in a cave, in another, older nightmare.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not Team Cap friendly, but I'll do my best to be objective. No beta, all mistakes are mine, please let me know if you spot any. I welcome all constructive criticism. Long wait between updates, consider yourselves warned.

The snow was cold. The silence was cold. Broken ribs and broken trust was cold.

The blood he was choking on was scorching hot.

He spat out another mouthful, tried to move, to roll on his side, but his body lit with piercing pain, the destroyed suit holding him still. He couldn't feel his fingers. Every breath hurt, scrapping his throat, forcing pierced lungs to inflate. Every spasming muscle, every wet, hacking cough hurt. The silence in his ears hurt.

So much for friendship, so much for being a team. For _Together._

The failure was cold, the betrayal was cold.

Death was cold.

***

He came to gasping, blinded, disoriented. Hot. There was light above him, harsh and flickering, there were hands grasping him, intelligible voices shouting above him. There was-

There was agony.

***

He woke abruptly, a shout dying on his lips. He choked, gasped, breathed in. He puled in huge gasps of air, stale and hot but _there,_ he could _breathe_ with no destroyed armour or craved in chest stopping him. Nothing stopping him, nothing-

Nothing but a gentle tugging at his chest.

He moved his hand, his whole, undamaged hand, no broken bones screaming in protest, he could lift it to his chest, could feel-

Could feel a couple of cables, small and isolated, connected to-

…Impossible.

He swallowed, his breathing quickening, fingers frantically moving around, finding the bandages, the ugly lump in his chest, drafted in, alien and unnatural and fucking _impossible-_

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you."

He twisted, eyes darting around a dim cave, left hand rising in a gesture to extend the ever-present gauntlet, to arm him, he _needed_ his suit-

The cables tugged again, there was a scape from the right, from- from a fucking _car battery_, old and dirty and terribly _familiar._ It was _impossible-_

"Calm down before you faint," the voice said, the voice from his _past_, how-? It was- How…

***

"You need to remain calm," Yinsen said, one hand on his wrist, tone dry and almost disinterested, almost uncaring. "I don’t have any drugs to give you and your heart really cannot afford the extra strain."

Said the dead man holding his hand. The irony was too much.

"What have you done to me?" he whispered.

"I've saved your life."

"And you expect me to be _grateful_?!"

Yinsen was silent for a moment.

"All life is precious."

Sure.

***

They came later that day, big and armed and unwashed, pale shadows of the things from his nightmares. Had he been afraid of them, once upon a time? Really?

Gods, he had been pathetic.

"Sure," he said, smile bright and sharp. "I'll build you your weapons. That's what I do. But I'll need some equipment first."

Yinsen shot him a sharp look, mouth pursued. Disappointed, probably, if a hallucination, or a lucid dream, or- or _whatever _it was, could be disappointed.

Get in line, Yinsen. Life is full of disappointments. You think you know someone, that you are _friends, _and then bam! You die alone in the cold.

"He won't let you go, you know. Once you've built him a Jericho. He won't let you go," Yinsen said quietly.

"I know."

"He's only going to use you."

"Most people do."

He didn't talk to Yinsen much, didn't ask him his life story, didn't let himself grow close to him. It was for the best. He hadn't known that at the time, would learn about such techniques years later from- from Natasha, but Yinsen had been a dead man walking since the first day Tony had looked at him and let him in, let himself care about him.

He would not make the same mistake twice.

"That doesn't look like a Jericho missile," Yinsen said from behind his shoulder.

"That's because it's not," he replied, slowly, carefully wielding all the parts together. God, it was ugly and clunky and inefficient, and he wanted to gnash his teeth at having it grafted to him _again_, but it would be a hell better than the fucking _car battery._ Once he got it done. "Do you mind? You're blocking the light."

"You know, we would be more productive if you'd let me on your plans."

Sure.

This time, there _were_ no plans, no drawings, nothing to give away the game. He had all the designs in his head, from the primitive Mark 1 all the way to the field-protected Mark 46, knew what to strengthen and what to modify. And the first thing that needed an overhaul, the critical weak point, was _him._

_Stark men are made of iron_. High time he started living up to the family motto.

"Heard that one before," he muttered. "Didn't work out too well for me."

"What, you've been kidnapped and held in Afghanistan desert before? With your chances of survival depending greatly on the help of the more experienced fellow captive?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know."

Once the miniaturised arch reactor was in his chest and he could move without dragging the fucking car battery everywhere, he did a careful inventory and adjusted his design for Mark 47. This time, he would do this properly. This time, there would be no one left to escape, to gather the pieces of the suit and arm his murderous, greedy traitor of a godfather.

This time, there would be no one left, period.

He worked fast, aided by experience and the burning anger in his guts, by lack of sleep and lack of self-preservation. He _would_ make it out of this damned cave, or he'd die trying. And he was sick of dying.

"You seem to be in a hurry," Yinsen said, stirring the pot with their dinner.

"Places to be, people to bother."

"I do not aspire to guess your plans, but even if you make it out of this cave, you'd still be lost in the mountains. And beyond the mountains, there's the desert. Sun, dehydration. Would it not be more… prudent, to wait for a rescue? I'm sure they are looking for you, Stark."

"Sure," he muttered, eyes on the rocket launches he was wielding into the suit shoulders. "Sure. Tell me, Yinsen how long have you been here?"

"… Almost two years."

"Anyone ever come looking for you?"

"I'm not an heir to a multimillion empire. I'm sure it's different-"

"Multi_billion_, thank you, and no, it's not. It’s really not."

He would get himself out. Even if he _had_ hallucinated the last _eight years_, Jesus mothersucker on a stick, that’s _a lot_ to hallucinate, but even _if-_

He had built his first circuit board at four, his first engine at six, his first robot assistant at seventeen. He was used to finding solutions, to fixing things. He _would _get out.

"It's getting cold. Winter will be here, soon," Yinsen mused over the thin soup.

"We'll be long gone by then. Unless you decide to come back and stick a Christmas tree on top of the ruins of this place. A capitalistic fuck you to these bastards."

Yinsen looked at him for a long moment.

"Is that what you plan on doing if you get out? An Italian salute to the world?"

"_When_ we get out, I’ll get home and spend some quality time in the lab, sorting out the mess you've made of my chest cavity."

"And then?"

"And then I'll have a cheeseburger, an American cheeseburger made from a free-range cow."

"And then?"

"And then I'll deal with the son of a bitch who put me here."

He would kill Obi for this, this time without putting Pepper in danger, with his own two hands. And he would deal with anyone who had ever attacked him and his people, had ever hurt Pepper or Happy or Rhodes… He would deal with Hammers, and Vanko, and Killian, and Burnes, and _Rogers_.

He had always known he wasn't a good man. He was a futurist and an engineer and a businessman, he lived by the cost-benefit analysis. He had accepted that one day Iron Man would meet a villain he couldn’t outsmart or overpower, that he would die fighting. But by gods, he did not think he would die like that, cold and alone and _betrayed-_

_Stark men are made of iron._ He would get out of here and then he'd make them all regret ever hearing his fucking name.

***

Nine weeks and three days and finally he had the suit ready, all the parts assembled, all the weapons loaded. Yinsen looked at it with dark eyes.

"That's enough fire-power to bring the whole cave system down on our heads. Or to massacre a small town."

"Don’t worry, sunshine, I know how to drive this wonder. Contrary to popular opinion, I do know what I'm doing."

The heavy metal door didn’t stand a chance, nor did the panicked shooting, nor did the guards. Flesh and bone broke beneath his armoured fists, blood spattered the dark metal. He pushed forward, through the screams and the bullets and the fire. None of that could touch him now.

They ran out of the cave like rats, like bugs, strong only when they had you by the collar and could dunk you in the water tank, could watch you struggle and crawl. They ran and waited by the mouth of the cave, the sunlight blinding, the screams illegible, unimportant. They would burn. They would _all_ burn.

They did.

***

Later, after all the weapons had been destroyed, after all the terrorists had been taken care of… Later, he returned to the cave to get Yinsen.

"My God," the man breathed, eyes wide, face ashen. "Oh, my God…"

"Help me get out of the suit," he grunted, pushing up the cumbersome facepiece. Ugh, what he wouldn’t give for a good old gold-titanium alloy, so much lighter, he would have to-

"Oh my God…"

"Hey! Snap out of it! Come one, stop gawking and help me."

"…You killed them all."

"Before they could kill us. You're welcome. Now make yourself useful and get the arm guard."

"Why?" Yinsen asked, his tone bitter, even as he grabbed the metal cutter. "Wouldn’t you rather keep your armour on? In case you meet any more resistance? Or a small tank?"

"They don’t make tanks in a small size, it’s kind of counterintuitive. Wait, wait we need to get both shoulders at the same time, just- There. And no. We need to destroy the suit."

Yinsen hands paused.

"Destroy?"

"Yes. Destroy, melt down, scatter the ashes, whatever. And then we say goodbye."

Yinsen worked on without a word.

"You should follow the canyon south, I believe there are American bases there," he said a few hours later, the last of the suit melted and reformed into grey lumps of harmless metal.

"What about you?"

"I'll go north. There is water there, at least during winter, there are bound to be people nearby. You won't have to… You don’t need to worry about me. I won't say anything. To anybody."

Tony glanced at him, at his drawn face and rounded shoulders, at the way he was avoiding Tony's eyes.

"I wasn't worried," he said slowly. "I know you won't talk about today. You know that some people would use that armour as a weapon of mass destruction."

"Yes. Some people."

"…Fuck you, Yinsen. Just- fuck you."

***

It took forever and a night for the American patrol to find him.

He spent the night walking, down the canyon, out amongst the rocky fields, his breath misting in the frigid air. The night passed and the sun rose, burning hot and the best thing he had ever seen. After the cave, after the Siberian bunker, there would never be too much sun.

The chopper was loud, the soldiers even louder, all shouted orders and stupid questions. Yes, of course, he was Tony Stark, yes, of course, he was fine. Nothing some time and technology wouldn’t solve. No, he did not remember how he got out, no, he could not point them in the direction of the terrorists' base. It happened so fast; it was all a blur. No, really.

The shower he took in the cramped base was the best thing ever.

He was assured that he would be on the first plane back home, bright and early the next morning. He spent the night wide awake, thoughts chasing each other in his head, plans forming and mutating and dying.

What should he do?

If he assumed that what he remembered was not a hallucination, not a terribly vivid nightmare, but actually, improbably, _somehow_ true… and all the signs were pointing in that direction… If he had _died_ and been given the second, the _third_ chance… What should he do? After he fired up the ground under Obi and- and the others, what should he _do_?

No, that was a stupid question. What did want to _achieve?_

_Don't waste it. Don’t waste your life._

Easier said than done.

***

Rhodey was waiting for him on the plane. Safe and alive, years younger, without the winkles at his brow and perpetually clenched jaw. _Standing_.

Thank God. God, Devil, the Universe, _whoever_ was the reason for his return, for this chance… Thank you. This time, he would do this properly. This time, none of his friends would bleed and suffer because of him.

"Hey, Tones," Rhodey said softly, clasping his arm. "How was the Fun-vee?"

"… Fun," he responded, voice thick, and gods, there was a lot of dust in the air. "Yeah, a real barrel of fun."

Rhodey's face changed and he leaned closer, grasped him around his shoulders, warm and secure.

"Next time you ride with me, ok?" he muttered into Tony's ear only. "Don't scare me like that again, you little punk."

"…No promises, Rhodey-bear. No promises."

***

Pepper was… stunning.

Young and unbowed and somehow lighter, even with red eyes and bitten off nails. She was…

"You are beautiful."

She blinked, then laughed, her smile a tremulous, fragile thing.

"And you are incorrigible," she said, shaking her head. "Not even two minutes in the US and already trying to hit on the first thing in a skirt."

He had been such a bastard.

"…Yeah, you know how it is. Rhodey doesn’t really have the legs to pull it off."

"It's good to have you back, Mr Stark."

He swallowed. He had never been so thankful for his sunglasses.

"It's good to be back, Miss Potts. Take me home."

She and Happy did, with the obligatory stop for the cheeseburgers.

His house in Malibu was- strange. Too open, with too many points of ingress, the wide windows offering too many lines of sight. The light fixtures and the wooden accents didn't seem to belong to him.

The underground workshop was better, even if criminally not up to his standards, future memories and all.

"You cannot mean to start working," Pepper complained, having followed him down there. "You need to rest, you should be in a hospital-"

"I don't need a _hospital_, I'm fine-"

"You've been gone for almost three months, you need to be looked over-"

"I'm not a piece of malfunctioning equipment to be _looked over_-"

"You're not a trained medical professional to be making that decision-"

"I've just spent three months unable to make _any_ decisions, including whenever I'll get to live another day. So you'll forgive me if-"

"Oh, Tony…"

Gods, she still fit into his arms just right.

"I'm fine," he whispered into her hair. "I'm fine, I promise, they looked me over at the base. I just- I need some time alone. To get my head on straight."

"…Alright. Whatever you say, boss."

She let go and stepped away, hands smoothing down her skirt. He missed her warmth immediately.

"I assume the SI has released a statement, but I need you to call a press conference for- oh, a day after tomorrow, and-"

"What? You _just _said-"

"And I need you to find out the names of the soldiers that were with me in Afghanistan, I want to set up a college found for their kids or something-"

"That's- lovely, and frankly uncharacteristic, you need to talk to Obadiah-"

"No!" he snapped even as he flinched, the spanner in his hand hitting the table with a heavy clank.

Pepper recoiled, eyes wide. He looked away.

"I just don’t wanna talk to anyone. For a bit."

"…You're talking to me."

"You're pretty. And my PA. And I know how lethal these heels can be, I wouldn’t be able to keep you out of I tried-"

"You just asked me to call a press conference! And Obadiah is in charge of PR-"

"So call me the press conference, I'll be fine in three days-"

"You said you’re fine _now_-"

"What, are you some kind of a lawyer now?"

"No_, but_-"

"But me no buts, Pepper. Come on, you've got calls to make."

"Yes, but tell me _why-_"

"That will be all, Miss Pott."

She bit her lips, glanced away.

"Of course, Mr Stark," she nodded and left, doors clicking gently behind her.

Correction: he still was a bastard.

***

Two days later and he had a replacement arch reactor ready, better and more efficient and totally palladium free. He _was_ a genius.

He still shuddered at having to rely on it, at having such an obvious weakness grafted into his living tissue, weighting his chest cavity down and pressing on his lungs. A big, glowing circle that practically shouted: target! Here's the Iron Man's fragile, pierced heart, come one and come all and take a shot! Rip it out of his chest, ram your shield into it-

Deep breaths. He was _fine_.

Still, it would do for now. Finding a way to live without it was high on his to-do list, but not as high as dealing with Obadiah. 

"The file copy is complete, sir."

"Great work, buddy," he replied, blinking just a bit. Of all the strange, batshit _crazy_ changes that his- vision? time-travel? _whatever _brought, having JARVIS back was… He had no words.

"Save it on our private server, make ten copies and save _these_ on separate servers. Nothing connected to me or the IS, I was thinking more… FBI, Armed Forces, the works. Maybe CNN."

"Sir?"

"I'm sure you can bury it in some dark corner, so no one will notice until we want them to. And send one to Pepper, hide it under her tax return forms or something."

"Very well, sir. When do you plan the great reveal for?"

"I'm not sure yet."

Maybe never. It would be so much simpler to get rid of Obadiah quietly, with a well-placed bullet or a convenient accident. No fight, no fuss, no chance of civilians getting hurt. No division in the SI, no chunks in his armour. He could do it.

Or he could play the long game, build his position, save himself the struggle and the dropping stock prices. He could smile and nod and work against Obi from the shadows, could use him and his contacts, could _then_ rip _his_ heart out, could smile and tell him it was for his own protection, that he had _forced_ him to do it, could watch him crawl and chock on his blood, all alone in the cold…

Gods, he _could._ He _wanted to_.

"Miss Potts has just arrived at the premises."

"Alone?"

"Yes, sir," JARVIS replied, even as a nearby monitor switched to show the gate's monitoring. "The extra security measures you've recently installed would not allow her to approach otherwise. Although, if I may advise keying in a few more individuals-"

"We’ll get Rhodey and Happy some other time."

"Numerous studies have shown that people require more than three individuals to remain healthy and sane. That's why it’s called a social circle, sir, not a triangle."

"Aren't you the funny one."

"Sir…"

"Sanity is overrated."

"That's _exactly_ what I want to hear, coming down here," Pepper said from the door, one eyebrow cocked. "You playing the mad scientist, all these- scraps of metal lying around-

"Scraps of metal? Excuse _you_-"

"-And the AI _you_ created arguing with you about sanity requirements."

Damn, but he loved this woman, this fragile, fierce woman. When was the last time someone had argued with him without drawing blood?

"I live to make your day," he smiled, surreptitiously putting away the newest gauntlet prototype. "So, what's the word on the ground?"

"Depends on who you ask," she replied briskly, following him out of the workshop. "The stock has almost recovered from the hit we took during your- absence, the broad members were too busy jostling among themselves to cause much trouble, the-"

"Who was most successful in turning my bloody corpse into a steppingstone?"

"Must you be so morbid?"

"It's my default setting these days, you'll get used to it. Who?"

"Maisel and Patterson were the most likely candidates for CEO, with Litt working on the side-lines and stirring up the R&D. For a moment there it- Well, the possibility of a spilt has been tossed around. Thank God Obi has been around to keep a lid on things."

"…Yes. Thank God."

He showered and dressed automatically, head buzzing with ideas and possibilities. He remembered that press conference, with him fresh off the plane, cheeseburger and victory thick on his tongue. He had been so sure what the right thing to do was, had been uncompromising in his execution of it. No more weapons. No more military contracts. No matter how much the stock dropped, how many product lines he had to close, how many people lost their jobs and retirement plans and health insurance. No more weapons.

And then he had turned around and built the best, most advantaged weapon suit the world had ever seen, and called himself a _hero_.

He would do better this time.

"Are you ready? We'll be late."

"Relax," he muttered, fiddling with the cufflinks. "It's my press conference, they won’t start without me."

"It's still not polite to be late, and- Oh, come over here, let me-"

"No! No, it's fine, thank you," he smiled and sidestepped her outstretched hand. "I've got this, no need to risk your perfectly manicured nails. Did you speak to the security?"

"Yes, I did, and they'll do it, through really, Tony, the new security measures are _incredibly_ invasive-"

"Not as invasive as being kidnapped and held for almost three months without any coffee or Internet access."

"Tony, no one is questioning-"

"Good, that's what I like. Come on then, let's go, wouldn't do to be late."

This time, the press conference was held in one of the SI buildings, in a wide lobby awash with sunlight. The press corps were already waiting, posed at the edges of their seats, shooting narrowed glances at the security personnel.

"They're not happy," Pepper muttered to him, hands twisting uselessly, still upset over his refusal to wear the usual makeup. He shrugged, eyes on the people on the other side of the one-way mirror.

It was a lot of people.

"Tony!"

He froze.

"Obi," Pepper smiled. Her voice seemed muted, far away. "It's good to see you."

"Great to see you too, Pepper. And you, Tony! Damn, you look like hell."

Obi leaned closer to him, one hand grasping his shoulder, big and wide-chested and- and familiar. So, so familiar.

"Obi," he managed to push through a constricted throat. He swallowed.

"It's good to have you back," Obi said, a wide, confident smile on his face. Tony had forgotten that, had forgotten the way Obi smiled, the way he stood, all calm confidence and an unshakable foundation. He had looked like that when Tony had built his first engine, had smiled like that when Tony had been accepted into MIT, had grasped his shoulder like that when his parents- at his parents' funeral.

Tony had missed that smile, that touch, that guiding hand. Everything that son of a bitch had done and then done again, and _would do _again_, _and Tony _still_ missed him.

Fuck, he was so messed up.

"Obi," he repeated and smiled, a practised smile that, for perhaps the first time, felt wrong on his face. "It's- it's good to see you."

He kind of wished it was a lie.

"Sure is. So, you wanna tell us what it's all about?" Obi asked easily, head tilled in the direction of the waiting press corps. "You don't own these harpies anything."

"I know. It's not about them."

Obadiah raised his eyebrows.

"What _is _it about, then?"

"About the company," he replied and shrugged easily, half-turning away, Obi's hand sliding off his shoulder. "It’s about time for a little expansion."

"Oh?"

He smiled and didn't answer, just strode forward, his spine crawling.

He plastered on a smile a second before entering the main room, the light of flashes almost blinding. The questions started before he could make it all the way to the podium.

"Mr Stark! Is it true-"

"Mr Stark, there have been rumours-"

"Mr Stark, will you comment on-"

"Hello to you too," he said over the noise, then waited for silence, eyebrow raised. The press knew him, or knew _of_ him, which, hey, in this world of money and glitter, was about the same thing. They shut up and sat down quickly, posed at the edges of their seats.

Come one, come all, and look at me. Look at my smile and pay no attention to my teeth.

"I've had a tiring few weeks, so I'm going to keep it brief," he stated. "I've been kidnapped and held in Afghanistan but, as you can see, I'm fine. Well, relatively speaking. Nothing that won't heal. You can scrap all the obituaries you've written, I'm going to be annoying you a while longer."

He smirked and paused for a moment, looking over their expectant faces. Time to get the show on the road.

"I've seen first-hand what kind of hell war is, in a way I've never seen before. I've seen the soldiers tasked with protecting me, protecting _all_ of us, brutally killed," ha paused and swallowed, took a deep breath. Forged on.

"They did their duty and were killed for it. They had good weapons, _my_ weapons. But they had shoddy transporters, insufficient body armours and obviously lacking intelligence support. Which is why Stark Industries will be expanding our field of interest. We will develop a body armour that does not cost sixty thousand dollars apiece. We will improve the military transporters, we will look into data-gathering devices used in a field."

"Mr Stark, does-"

"What about-"

"Furthermore," he continued, speaking just a bit lauder, "we will establish cooperation with various medical specialists to design a range of life-improving devices for those wounded in service. So that our veterans are not tossed aside the second they are no longer field-ready. So the wounded are healed and- and the paralysed can walk."

"Mr Stark-"

"We have a chance to change the future, and it's our duty to shape it right," he said loudly, eyes landing on Pepper and Obi, standing by the wall behind the journalists. "We need to save our soldiers, not just kill the enemy. We need better arms dealing regulations, to make sure that our weapons don't end in the wrong hands."

Obi stilled.

"Which is why," Tony said, "Stark Industries will be conducting a thorough internal investigation. We have a long history of supplying our army, and we are proud of it, but we cannot ignore the facts. We need clarity, we need _accountability._ I cannot see our weapons in the hands of terrorists and not do everything in my power to put an end to it."

In the background, Obi locked eyes with Tony.

"This time, we'll do it right," he said.

***

"Well, that was interesting," Obi said a few hours later.

They were in Tony's office in the HQ, an enormous, airy corner room that was almost never used. After the press conference and the extremely brief (and extremely abbreviated, not to say untrue) debriefing with FBI, CIA, military intelligence and one paper-pushing agent from some unimportant agency with a name too long to remember, after an emergency board meeting and a number of conference calls with the more important investors, after… After the long day of noise and arguing and frantic energy, the quiet in the office seemed almost unreal. No lawyers, no aids, no one but the two of them. Not even Pepper.

Tony didn't reply. He stood by the window, eyes distant, the tumbler of whiskey a familiar weight in his hand. He swilled it, again and again, breathing in the comforting, rich smell. He didn’t drink.

Obi was watching him with dark eyes.

"The military isn't happy with you," he said. "They're our oldest contractor, any accusations of incompetence, even implied, are going to hit us harder than them. _They _don’t have to worry about shares worth and thousands of employees."

"Hundreds of thousands," Tony replied. "Almost all of them working in America, too, for all that moving production abroad would have been cheaper. Hundreds of thousands of people making guns and bullets and missiles. Our grand contribution to the American dream."

"No need to sound so bitter. That American dream kept you warm and fed and allowed you to finance all your outlandish projects, down to your robot sidekicks."

"Hey!" he turned around, leaning back against the bullet-proof glass. "DUM-E is a cutting-edge technological marvel that allowed us to move into surgery robotics, and you know it."

"Sure it was," Obi nodded. "Twenty years ago. Now you just keep him around to have someone to verbally abuse."

"I resent that. I verbally abuse all the people I know, without discrimination."

Obi chuckled, shaking his head. Tony discovered he was smiling back, basking in the easy familiarity, in the friendship two decades in the making. He swallowed and looked down at his full glass, at his hand, tanned and too thin and scrapped raw.

"You know," he mused, looking up, into Obi's gunmetal eyes, "what I have never, ever understood, was _why_. There was not enough time to ask, and then- then I couldn't ask. But it simply doesn't make any sense, it never did. Was it my ego? Have I abused _you_ a bit too much? Is that why?"

"Why what?"

"Why you tried to kill me?"

Obi stilled, the glass grasped in a white-knuckled grip. But he was a skilled businessman, he got himself under control in less than a second.

"Tony," he said reproachfully, "I know your sense of humour can be a bit skived, but this is taking it a bit too far-"

"Why have you tried to kill me, Obi? Or have me killed, whatever."

"Tony, now be serious-"

"I'm extremely serious. I know you did it, I _have proof_ you did it. Your only mistake was not paying the Ten Rings enough. Or is that really what it was about, Obi? Money?"

Obi didn’t answer, the lines of his shoulder tight. Tony shook his head.

"But you have all the money in the world, more than you can spend in a lifetime," he continued, eyes not leaving Obi's face, not even for a second. "You have all the respect and influence money and position can buy, all the scrabbling bows and winks and magazine covers, all that crap. And I've never hurt you, I'd remember that. So why the fuck would you risk- I just don't get it. I really don't."

Obi still didn't answer.

"Why, Obi?" Tony insisted. "You owe me that much."

"Are you trying to trick me into a confession, Tony?"

"I don’t need to," he fired right back. "I have all the proof I need, that video they sent you, the years and years of your double-dealing, of selling guns to _terrorists_, Jesus Christ. I'm sure your friends in DoD will just love these. I don't need _shit_ from you."

Obi laughed. It wasn't a nice sound.

"And that's where you're wrong," he said, rising and meandering closer, one hand slipping casually into his pocket. "You're the neediest bastard I know. That's your greatest weakness, Tony, the way you _need_ people, need their validation. Getting you out to Afghanistan, in the line of fire? That was the easiest thing in the world. All one has to do is to show you a little kindness and you leave your back unprotected, wide open. You can't blame a guy for putting a knife in it."

Tony stared, blinking against the darkness of the cave, the coldness on Siberia.

"But _why?_"

Obi smiled coldly.

"For the company."

"Bullshit!"

"And for the military, for our country-"

"_Double_ bullshit! You're selling weapons to the terrorists, you don't give a flying fuck for _our country_!"

"Don't be naïve, Tony. Who do you think gives these people their orders?"

"Wha-"

"The military can't be everywhere, and even the black ops can't always get access to incendiary points. That's where the local partisans come into play. Or the terrorists, if you like that name better." Obi shrugged and took a slip from his glass, eyes on Tony.

And yeah, Tony knew about the games CIA liked to play, but-

"That's- that's history," he said. "We don't do this anymore."

"Please, Tony," Obi shook his head, took another step closer. "We just don’t tell people we're doing this. Sometimes you need to operate outside the public view."

He shook his head.

"People deserve transparency. They deserve _accountability-"_

"People deserve shit! What we're doing, what _I'm_ doing, is for their own good, so they can sleep safely without worrying that some third-rate African warlord is going to drop a dirty bomb on their heads!"

"Yeah? And your personal ambition has nothing to do with that?" he scoffed, showing away from the window, hands tightly clenched. God, he hated that bullshit. "Tell me, how did the military show their gratitude? How many of your enemies are rotting in Guantanamo right now?"

"_Your_ enemies as well."

"…What?"

Obi smirked and took another sip of his drink.

"You never questioned why SI is doing so well, why we're so far ahead of the competition? Tony," he sighed like Tony was a five-year-old kid, too naïve and too stupid to be trusted with tying his own shoes. Maybe he was.

"Our products are way better than anything else on the market," he forced past his suddenly tight throat.

"They're also way more expensive, with too many limitations. Come on, don't look at me like that. I did you a favour."

"A favour."

"A favour you are too blind to appreciate, obviously. Well, no matter. I'll take care of the company, once you're gone," from his pocket Obi removed a pair of specialised earpieces and a small, black device. Both horribly, terribly familiar to Tony. "Your legacy will live on. You don't have to thank me."

"How? How are you going to take care of _my company_?" he taunted, trying to stop his hands from shaking. "I'm personally responsible for more than half of the SI patents, I'm the technical brain behind every major advancement in the last three decades. I _am_ the company."

Obi shrugged, putting the earpieces in, adjusting their position with easy, practised movements.

"You're clever, I'll give you that, but you lack vision,” he said, raising the Sonic Teaser to eye level. “You can be terribly short-sighted, Tony.”

Yes. He had been, hadn’t he?

"Don't do this, Obi," he said, almost fucking _begged_, shaking his head. "Don't. Please. You're my oldest friend."

"You don’t have friends, Tony, only people you pay to tolerate you for a while."

"I don’t want to hurt you."

"Don't worry. You won't."

Obi pressed the trigger.

Then he froze, eyes wide, face stilling and palling, dark blood vessels sneaking across his temples and cheeks like cracks in pottery. He swayed and then fell down, heavy, like a log. The Sonic Teaser fell from his hand.

Tony sighed.

"You didn't think I'd let you, did you?" he muttered, leaning back against the wide desk, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

Fuck, it was such a mess.

"Don't look at me like that," he mimicked with a crooked smile. "I can be short-sighed, but I'm not stupid enough to risk trading barbs with a villain without having an ace up my sleeve. And I know you. I know which toys you like to use. It was insultingly easy to confiscate the Sonic Teaser during the press conference and then have it replaced with a new, improved model. You never cared enough to notice a difference."

That was always one of _Obi's _weaknesses, that he was too much of a businessman and not enough of an engineer. They all had their weak spots.

"What am I going to do with you now?"

His plan, his reluctantly put together, squeaky clean, hero-approved plan to take Obi down, arrest him and let the authorities do their job just went splat. If Obi was telling the truth, if even _half_ of that was true, there would be no arresting him, not properly. There would be no cell where his corrupted army buddies wouldn't be able to reach him and open the door. And Obi out of cell would mean trouble, would mean a threat, a _deadly_ threat at his back, ready to rip the arch-reactor from his chest, ready to use him and kill him, ready and _able_ to kill _Pepper_.

Something shattered.

He blinked down at the shards of glass on the floor, a few still embedded in his hand. Fan-fucking-tastic. He flexed his hand, watched the blood drip down with a detached curiosity. Was even one day without an injury too much to hope for?

Hope. Ha! He had hoped for an explanation, maybe even- yes, alright, maybe something more. Maybe somewhere deep down, where his childhood fears and hopes lived, he had _longed_ for a different scenario, for a proof that he was wrong, that all he knew and remembered was _wrong,_ that Obi _did _care for him-

_That's your greatest weakness, Tony, the way you need people._

Well.

Hadn't he promised himself that he would do it properly, this time around?

He looked at Obi, blinking now, twitching slightly as the paralysis gradually wore off. His eyes were locked on the dropped Sonic Teaser.

Slowly, like in a dream, Tony walked over and picked it up. His hand left a bloody stain on the floor, smeared blood on the slim device.

_Stark men are made of iron._

Obi's eyes were trained at him. Tony looked back and pressed the trigger once, then again. And again.

And then again.

***

His office was dark, the door locked, his security cod still engaged. But there was someone inside. He could feel it.

Calmly, he closed the door behind him and walked towards his desk, the three steps easy to make in the darkness. He set his briefcase on the desk and reached for the lamp switch. His other hand crept towards his concealed Taurus PT111. He'd have maybe half a second before the intruder's eyes adjusted, he'd have to make that count.

"At ease, agent."

Jesus fucking weep.

"Director," he smiled thinly, finally switching the lights on and- yes, behind him, right behind his chair, in an ideal position for an execution-style shoot, Jesus on a stick. He'd have nightmares about the possibilities for a month, he just knew.

"Good instincts," Director Fury said, calmly walking over and leaning against the desk, too close for comfort.

Phil sighed and stayed standing, smiling blandly. He knew how much that aggravated the other man.

"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?"

"You can try. Why don't you start with explaining that failure you call an incident report."

"I've written a number of these, sir, if you could-"

"The Stark situation."

"…Ah."

Fury sent him a flat look.

"Yes, _ah_. What aren't you telling me, Coulson?"

He drew himself tall, painfully aware of all the ways Fury could break his career. And probably his back too, if he felt like it.

"I assure you, my report contained all relevant facts and-"

"And you're still holding something back," Fury didn’t let him finish. "With anyone else, I'd be asking what Stark has promised you. Or what he has on you."

Phil felt his face go wooden.

"I know better, with you," Fury continued, voice brisk. "But I can tell when you're self-censoring. What I want to know is _why_ and _what_."

Phil flexed his fingers, looked down at his desk. He thought for a moment.

"I wrote everything of note in my report, sir," he said carefully. "Whatever- impressions I decided to leave out of it, if any, are highly subjective."

"Let me the judge of that, Coulson."

He let out a deep breath. He had no love for being handled like that, but perhaps this time it was for the best. Someone else should be made aware of the- possibilities.

He walked over to the mini-bar and turned the kettle on, the dig in the back for the good coffee beans. It was late and the last thing he needed was more caffeine, but he liked the ritual of making coffee, the easy familiarity of it.

"Stark's actions don't match our psychological profile. His behaviour is all over the place," he said. "He's- careful, contained. Loud and brash and annoying on the surface, but almost- well, almost calculating beneath it all. There's _something_ not right."

"He _had_ just spent almost three months in an extremely traumatic situation," Fury said slowly. "That could change a person. Especially a civilian."

"But that's just it, he doesn't _behave_ like a civilian. His posture, his speech pattern, the way he handles interrogation and debriefing… It all hints at _some_ training. More than three months of it, more than Tony Stark ever had."

"A plant?" Fury asked sharply.

"No. Impossible. We've watched him scribble plans and schematics on margins of his notes all day, take apart and improve the ventilation system in the debriefing room because he was bored. It's Stark. Or another engineering genius, which kind of defeats the purpose."

Fury was silent for a moment, face unmoving. Phil sighed, smoothly pouring boiling water into the coffee press. Frustrating didn't begin to cover it. At least now someone else would be facing a sleepless night. Misery loved company and all that.

"If not a plant," Fury finally mused, "then an agent."

If only it was that simple.

"I don't believe so, sir."

"Three months is a long time, to resist torture," Fury said flatly. "If switching meant living ad getting out of these caves… Better men than Stark have been broken."

"But then why the theatrical escape? Why kill everyone and destroy the base?" Phil asked, taking a tentative sip. Ah. Perfection. "The military found enough bodies to verify that part of his story."

"Ah, yes, the daring escape," Fury snorted his disbelief. "And the mysterious weapon he built alone, from scraps, under the very eyes of his captors. He told you anything more about that?"

"No, sir," he shook his head. "And I don’t believe he will. He claims it'd be too dangerous in the wrong hands."

"How convenient."

Wasn't it just?

"I don't believe he's been recruited," he repeated. "I can't imagine him following orders, and he's too arrogant to accept anyone having that kind of power over him. His refusal to hand over this new weapon of his to DoD proves it well enough."

Fury nodded, expression thoughtful.

"So not an agent, then. At least until we can find a proof saying otherwise."

Phil nodded. If he were wrong, if Stark _had_ been broken and recruited, they'd find out soon enough.

“I can see why you’d keep it out of the written report,” Fury continued. “Good instincts, Coulson.”

They shared a long look.

Writing things down could be a dangerous habit, especially in an age where everything, _everything,_ was digitalised and thus valuable to hacking. No need to let a potential threat on their suspicions.

“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Fury promised.

Phil nodded. They would. They had their ways.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly disgusted with how Marvel portrayed female characters. Pepper is bad, Jane is worse. They seem to exist only as props in the men's journey, as tools for Iron Man and Thor's character arches. That being said, I did the best I could, and I plan to give them a bit more agency in my fic (if I can).
> 
> Fair warning: I still don't have a beta reader, is anyone interested? All mistakes are mine, all science and pseudo-science are totally made up, I know nothing about American military or higher education... Just. Don't take these bits too seriously, alright? 
> 
> And a bit, BIG thank you to all you lovely people who left me a comment or some kudos, you brighten my days and make me continue with this story. Thank you, you're great!

He walked into the workshop after yet another nightmare, the lights and computers flickering to life, DUM-E rising his head curiously.

“Rise and shine, JARVIS,” he called, his voice still hoarse. “It’s time to work for a living.”

“As you say, sir.”

The nearest monitor brightened with his most recent projects, the specs for Mark 28 falling into place like pieces of a puzzle.

“How is it coming along, Jarvis?”

“Fabrication is 78% complete, sir.”

“Good. Now, a new project,” he said and walked over to the central holographic display. “Give me the map of the world with all the military bases and battleships noted, all the submarines and launching sides and research facilities. If a foot soldier has a fag outside an armoured vehicle, I want to see it.”

“Assessing the location of every American base will take some time, sir.”

“Not American, Jar, _every_ military and paramilitary base. And give me the location of the space satellites, while you are at it.”

JARVIS was silent for almost a second longer than usual. Tony grinned.

“Acquiring that information would require hacking into secured military databases,” his AI said, but his voice wasn’t condemning. Far from it.

“And that’s a problem, how?” Tony raised a mocking eyebrow, absentmindedly marking the bases he knew about, that he _remembered_, on the map. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done that before, J, I know how you like to spend your time.”

“Getting past these firewalls can, on occasion, present something close to a diversion,” JARVIS agreed calmly. Gods, how Tony loved that droll, prim-sounding rascal. “I will start on it presently, sir. Is there any reason you desire that information?”

“I want to see what we’ve got to work with,” he muttered, grabbing another computer to calculate the stress and the pressure that a satellite made with Badassium (Starkium was such a stuffy name) ally would have to bear during launch into space. “I need to get this right, this time around. I got- interrupted, before. Started the whole thing the wrong way, depended on the wrong people. This time we’ll get it right, buddy. Third time is a charm and all that.”

“Third time at what, sir?”

Tony paused, staring at the Earth hologram in front of him, precise and detailed and so fucking fragile.

“A suit of armour around the world, Jarvis,” he murmured. “And an accord that will help me protect it.”

He needed that, _they all_ needed that. A group of Avengers was all well and good- Well, as long as you weren’t a civilian on the ground, or a SHIELD agent exposed by an info dump and left to die, or an unpopular team member- but whatever, as long as you weren’t an acceptable collateral damage, Avengers sounded great. The Earth mightiest heroes, always ready to fight and, ha! avenge. The stuff of legends.

The reality had turned out to be far more squalid.

Tony could get behind the idea of revenge, _oh boy_, could he ever, but the Earth and its people deserved something better. They deserved better than the New York in ruins, a nuclear weapon flying towards Manhattan. They deserved better than drowning under the Potomac’s water, or being crushed by a _falling building_ in Sokovia, or being shot by a cheap knock-off of his own armour-

They deserved to be protected, not just avenged. And he’d do his damned best to deliver, even if he’d have to lie, and manipulate, and deal with people who made his skin crawl- He’d do it.

As for revenge…

“Jarvis, find me Ivan Vanko, Aldrich Killian, Maya Hansen and Justin Hammer. I want _everything_ there’s to know about them.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“And keep an eye on the oil company Новое масло.”

He had promises to keep.

***

Hammer was easy.

The little maggot had always been more of a nuisance than a threat, irritating only as a distraction, like a splinter under your nail. Tony had never acted against him, because… Well, to be honest, because he just couldn’t care less about _Justin Hammer_, of all people.

He had forgotten that even a splinter could spread gangrene if ignored long enough.

Hammer’s decision to break out and hire Ivan Vanko was monumentally stupid, but hardly the first or the worst mistake he’d ever made, as the ensuing investigation had proved. It was merely the first one Hammer hadn’t been able to cover with his money and connections.

And now Tony knew _all _about Hammer’s bad decisions. Each and every one of them.

“Can you believe that?” Pepper asked one day over coffee, disgustingly healthy breakfast and a truly unholy amount of paperwork. “I mean, I knew Justin was- not an ideal businessman-“

“Yep, that’s me,” he smirked.

He glanced at news channel before turning back to his coffee; the anchor was just finishing describing the arrest and was about to star on the charges. He knew it was going to be a long list.

“-But I never would have thought he’d be _that_ stupid. And unethical! The work conditions alone, not to mention the tax evasion and intellectual property theft-“

“Are you really surprised? The man hadn’t produced anything original in years, he just knew how to rip off his betters.”

“You mean _you_, don’t you?” Pepper asked drolly.

“Well, if a shoe fits…”

She shook her head, smiling just a bit. He took a second to just look at her, at her long lashes, at her lips. He could still remember their taste.

“Speaking of,” he said hurriedly, looking back at the TV, “I want to buy shares of Hammer Tech, as many as you can get.”

“What? _Why?_ You hate Justin-“

“I don’t _hate_ Hammer, and I’m not doing it out of the goodness of my heart, anyway. The shares are going to be dirt cheap right now and I want enough to get controlling interest.”

“… You’re talking about an aggressive takeover,” she said slowly.

“It’ll probably take a while,” he continued, busying himself with his- ugh, his yoghurt and nuts, were these nuts? Why, oh why did Pepper insist on feeding him rabbit food? “Even Hammer isn’t stupid enough to liquidate that much of his shares, but the trial costs are going to hit him hard, plus all these fines and overdue taxes and whatnot, he’s going to have to sell if he wants to keep the company afloat-“

“And why do you want to buy it? You’ve always mocked Hammer Tech, your own company-“

“Is going to expand _significantly _in the next five years, and we could use experienced workers and the infrastructure. Besides,” he shrugged, “I want to be able to throw it in Hammer’s face the next time I see him.”

Pepper didn’t answer. He glanced up and was met with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smile.

“Or we could just get the machinery and cut the workers loose,” she suggested lightly. “They’re used to working under Hammer, they’ve probably formed a whole lot of bad habits, firing them and getting some actual experts would be cost-effective-“

“No, no, it would- It would be bad PR, what are you, some heartless capitalist shark? We keep the people, we get the kudos from the people, it’s that simple. Now, how is the legal doing? Have you got the new people I wanted?”

“Tony,” she began and her tone was wrong, all soft and fond, damn it, he wasn’t made of _stone_-

“The legal, Miss Potts,” he said shortly. “Or is organising new hires too taxing for you? Do you need a little minion to help you organise the schedule?”

He heard her sigh but didn’t look up, kept his eyes glued to the StarPad in his hand.

“The initial interviews went well,” she said after a moment, back to her habitual, slightly impatient tone. Good. “I’m meeting with the selected thirty candidates tomorrow morning, we’ll see which of them turn out to be the best fit.”

“Hire as many as you like, all thirty if they pass the security check.”

“They already-“

“Jarvis’ check,” he corrected. “Need to make sure they aren’t some super-secret ninja sent to kill me, or to spy on me, or to get into my bed-“

“Your bed is a drive-through, why would anyone bother?”

Why would they, indeed.

“How is the rest of the shopping list going?” he asked.

“The new research institute in Venezuela should be fully operational within two weeks. The medical research team is going to start testing the prototype you gave them in two days, then, if everything works as it should-“

“_If_, you say, like you don’t know me-“

“They can start clinic trails next month, and I don’t want to know how you got the ethical committee to approve so quickly-“

“My wild sexual magnetism.”

“We’re fending some inquiries from DoD, CIA is getting insistent-“

“Don’t worry about them, I have them in hand.”

“And that’s not frightening at all,” she muttered, before focusing back on her own StarkPad. “I’ve started the proceedings to get your father’s belonging released from the Smithsonian, though I have to warn you, that move won’t win you any sympathy point. Your father’s notes and personal belonging are being collected from the manor and should arrive tomorrow. I’ve reached out to the scientists you wanted, and most of them send positive replies, we can start looking into sponsoring their research whenever you’re ready-“

“Let’s do that this evening, I want to start as soon as possible.”

“Let’s do that tomorrow evening-“

“Why not tonight?”

“I’ve got plans for tonight, and we’re still waiting for-“

“It’s not your birthday,” he said before he could bite his tongue. It was none of his business if Pepper had plans, if she had a _date_-

“How would you know, without me reminding you?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. No smile, either. “And besides, I’m allowed to have a private life-“

“Yes, yes, you’re right. Sorry,” he waved his hand and stood up. High time to get back to work, the world was not going to save itself. “Let’s review the list tomorrow evening and set the interviews for the next week. Now excuse me, but I need to go and stop Butterfingers from going something unspeakable with something unmentionable. Kids, can’t leave them alone for a second, you know how it is.”

“Don’t I just.”

***

They did get the ball rolling the next evening, screening the scientists and think-tanks, digging into their research, previous sponsors and estimated profit their projects could bring. Every person was checked and then checked again, their numbers ran and their records looked over. With over fifty candidates, it was a long and tedious process, spilling over and taking the most of the next week.

It was totally worth it.

“Good morning, Dr Foster,” he nodded at the scientist on the other end of a videoconference call.

“Dr Stark,” Jane Foster nodded back, strange with her reserved manner and young face, and no, he wasn’t biased, she really _was_ damn young, like barely allowed to drink young. It crashed with her overly professional manner, was all he was saying. “It’s- Well, I wasn’t expecting you personally, I thought someone from the R&D department-“

“I like to keep the best bits for myself,” he smiled. “Eat all the chocolate cookies and pick the bacon out of the salad, that’s me.”

“I see,” she said stiffly. “And how did you come across my research, exactly? Astronomy is hardly your area of interest.”

“I’m interested in a lot of things, as long as they’re _interesting,_” Tony shrugged. “I’m planning on restructuring SI, branching out into new fields and so on. I’m looking into these fields. Now, I’ve read your latest paper on the possible ways to predict strong atmospheric disturbances and the numbers behind your theory look solid. Only-“

“Only _what,_ Dr Stark?”

“Only why the hell are you dumbing yourself down?” he asked with a shake of his head. “I’ve looked over your other projects, I know you’re too smart not to see the implications of your findings, and you’re out there writing about _storm prediction?_ For all that's- _why?_”

“My findings are significant,” she said tensely. “Predicting storms can be instrumental in minimising casualties caused by hurricanes-“

“So can people evacuating when they’re told to, they don’t need a doctorate for it. Your findings are just the tip of an iceberg, I _know_ you know this, so why are you asking for grants for _weather prediction?_”

“Because that’s the only thing I could get! The only thing that was deemed _practical_ enough, _profitable _enough, for me to get anywhere without sleeping with some slimy douchebag! And I’ll take it, Dr Stark. Even if I have to _dumb myself down!_”

Ah. Here was the fire that Thor must have admired at their first meeting. Good. Tony would need that fire.

“Take my offer and you won’t have to,” he offered.

She sent him a narrow look.

“Why? I’m aware of your reputation, Dr Stark.”

“And your parents warned you about big bad men who offer candy on street corners?” he threw out with forced levity. “Fair enough. I’ll spell it out, then: I don’t want you to sleep with me, I don’t expect you to sleep with me. Or with anyone else, for that matter. If any of my employees ever make any demands on you, we have a very strict no-harassment policy that-“

“I don’t want my research to be weaponised,” Foster stated, leaning closer to the camera. “I’m not interested in any rationalisations you’ve got to offer, I don’t want my findings killing people.”

“And I don’t want to use your findings to kill people.”

“Stark Industries is a military contractor.”

“Stark Industries is whatever I tell it to be,” he cut her off. Fuck, would he always have to defend himself and his choices, over and over and _over again_? “We get many military contracts, that’s true, but we’re also pioneers in medical robotics and crops modification, we’re starting on prosthetics and clean energy, and neuroscience, and a shitload of other stuff. That’s what diversifying _means_.”

“And you want to diversify into astrophysics?” she raised an eyebrow, defiant and scornful as only the young could be. “Why?”

Because he knew what was coming, because he needed to be ready, he needed to be in the thick of the events in order to change them. Because he wished he _could_ just shoot down the weapon production and damn the consequences.

“Because I don’t want weapons and destruction to be my only legacy,” he said quietly instead. “Three months in a cave in Afghanistan gives you all the time for soul gazing you need, and, well. I didn’t particularly like the view. I want a chance to do something better, to _build_ something better. That’s what this grant and scholarship program is all about, you know? Enabling others so we can change the world, reframe the future. I thought you’d like to be a part of that,” he shrugged and looked away.

There was a moment of heavy silence. Come on, he thought, still looking away, letting the silence linger. Come on, Dr Foster. Bite.

“I do want to be a part of it,” she said, her brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- It’s none of my business, I just- There’ve been suggestions that I should sell my findings to the military before, so I thought-“

“So you thought I’d do the same,” he sighed. “Yeah, I’m aware of my reputation too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said with a wan smile. “Your concerns are understandable. My legal team is going to contact you tomorrow, just tell them your terms and they’ll make sure they get put in your contract. You get the creative freedom and a guarantee that your research won’t be weaponised, plus the funding and help you need, all the equipment and facilities and peer reviews we can provide. I get to feel better about myself and can gloat about my sound investment at those boring gala dinners. Sounds fair?”

“More than fair,” she said softly, looking away. “It’s an amazing opportunity, I am aware of that. Thank you, Dr Stark.”

“You’re welcome, and it’s Tony. No one calls me Dr Stark, not since the dean had to swallow his totally baseless antipathy and grant me my first doctorate. God, you should’ve seen his face. You blow up a lab one time and the guy can never let it go.”

“You blew up the lab?”

“Only once!”

“_How _did you blow it up?”

“One of my professors had this idiotic theory that you cannot meld reactive metal alloys together, and he was _teaching_ it to the next generation of engineers, can you believe it? So I had to prove him wrong, only the lab equipment was subpar and couldn’t handle the temperature needed. I paid to have the whole lab refurbished with state-of-the-art equipment and _then_ showed that stuck up prat of a professor that he was _wrong._”

She laughed.

“I can see that the dean’s antipathy was _totally _baseless, Dr Stark.”

“Tony. And sure it was. If he couldn’t handle being proven wrong, then he had no business calling himself a scientist, Dr Foster.”

“I can get behind that statement. Tony,” she smiled a real smile this time, small and lovely and just a bit uncertain. “And please call me Jane. If I’m going to be working for you, kind of.”

Gotcha.

“You’re going to be working _with me_, Jane,” he said easily. “I wasn’t kidding about that peer review, you know. Nor about getting the best bits for myself. I wanna hear _everything_ about your research. Come on. Tell me. Have you had any luck registering the Rosen Particles?”

“You have heard- What am I saying, _of course_ you’ve heard about Rosen Particles. Do you think she was right? Do you think it’s possible to travel through space and time by harnessing the power of the Particles?”

What a question to ask him.

“I think that there’s so much in the universe we don’t understand that I wouldn’t be surprised to one day wake up last Wednesday,” he said honestly. “I really wouldn’t be surprised at all.”

***

There were other scientists they contacted, of course, some chosen because Tony had heard about them in the future, some because he _hadn’t_ and he thought he should have. He probably would have, if only they weren’t women, or not white, or openly not heterosexual, or just too poor and awkward to get the grants.

That was the sad truth: about eighty per cent of interesting ideas died a quiet death because of the lack of funds. His father used to say that the only difference between a genius and a madman dying of pneumonia in a homeless shelter was how sellable their ideas were.

Tony was extremely sellable.

“Here comes the man of the hour!” Rhodey called out to him through the crowded conference room. “Make room, people, make room, genius coming through!”

“And what have _you_ been drinking?” Tony asked with a silly smile. It was good to see his platypus so carefree.

“The glee of having a bloody genius for a friend,” Rhodey grinned back and slapped him gently on a shoulder. “It’s not every day that you discover a brand-new element.”

“That’s just a sign that you should spend more time in the lab and less in that death trap you call a plane, Rhoddy-bear.”

“_You_ built that death trap.”

“I’ll build you something better, just you wait.”

“What, a space rocket?”

“Nah, that’s so last year,” Tony waved a careless hand. “Something better, way more stylish.”

Rhodey laughed, shaking his head.

“Only you, Tones,” he said and then added, tone suddenly serious: “You know, I told you, I bloody _kept_ telling you.”

“Telling me what?”

“That there’s more to you than parties and women and cars, than that- that _mask_ you keep hiding behind. I knew. And I’m proud of you, Tones.”

Tony froze, looking into his friend’s dark, serious eyes.

The lights in the room were too bright, too hot, _he _was too hot. He blinked, trying to get the darkness of the wormhole out of his eyes, trying to swallow past the blood on his tongue, in his throat-

“Tony?”

Proud, Rhodey said. Would he still be proud if he knew?

“Tones?”

“Sorry, had to reboot after that much cheesiness thrown at me,” he cracked a smile, turning away and looking for- a hot hostess with drinks coming their way, perfect! “Thank you, sweetheart. Come on, Platypus, let’s drink to you finally getting to say _I told you so_.”

“That’s not what-“

“I know how long you’ve been waiting for it, it’s usually my line. Bottoms up!”

“…Tony.”

And now the familiar exasperated tone was back. Yay.

“Now, what’s that I’ve been hearing about the brass harassing Pepper? It takes a lot to get her looking so annoyed, I should know, so what the hell is their problem this time?”

Rhodey sighed.

“_This time_, they are unhappy with the accusations you’ve made, on the national TV no less, about possible corruption or leak or whatever the hell that was-“

“Hey, all I said was that SI had an internal problem that we’d be looking closely at, if they got spooked then it’s hardly my fault. Though it does paint a pretty grim picture, doesn’t it?”

“And comments like this are not helping you any, Tones,” Rhodey grimaced, fidgeting with his champagne glass. “The generals also want to renegotiate the old contracts.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Yeah, but it’s not going to sway the way they want it to. Fair warning.”

Rhodey sighed and placed his glass on a passing hostess’s tray, then led Tony outside, into one of the decorative terraces.

“It’s not a good time for playing games,” Rhodey said quietly, leaning against a balustrade. “I need you to keep your head down for a bit. They want to renegotiate. Let them. Send them some monkey in the suit to throw numbers at them and stay out of this one, alright?”

Tony sent him a narrow look.

“Why?” he asked slowly.

“Because I don’t like the rumours I’ve been hearing, I don’t like the movements within the DoD,” Rhodey murmured, leaning closer. “It’ll take me some time to figure out their new game plan.”

Yeah, wide-spread conspiracy and corruption was a bitch to detect, let alone prove. Tony should know, he had spent the last few months eradicating Obi’s greasy fingerprints from all over his company. A whole fucking military was bound to be even worse, and that’s not even touching on the whole HYDRA infiltration problem.

“I’m not playing anymore, Rhodey,” he said, looking away from the lights of the party, up to the stars and the darkness waiting between them. He sighed. “It doesn’t matter what they do, not really. If they want to renegotiate, if they harass Pepper, if they keep my property from me-“

“Wait, what property?”

“The shield.”

“The shie- Tony!” Rhodey sent him an incredulous look. “They’re not going to give you _Captain America’s shield_!”

“It’s mine, it’s Stark Industries’ legal property, I’m taking it.”

“They’re not gonna release it, no matter what paperwork you throw at them, you _know_ that,” Rhodey shook his head. “I thought you were asking just to shake things up a bit, get a better bargaining position-“

“You’re _not listening_ to me, I just told you I’m not bargaining, I’m not playing, I’m _done._ Alright? I’m just done.”

Rhodey sent him a long, complicated look. Then he shook his head and shifted closer, his shoulder brushing Tony’s.

“No, you’re not,” Rhodey said with a soft exhale. “You’re, I don’t know, tired, or angry, or depressed, and fuck, no one would blame you if you wanted to take some time off after Afghanistan, but I know you, Tony. You’re never done. You’ll never stop. You’d outlive God to have the last word.”

Tony chocked on shocked laughter.

“You’re more right than you know, Platypus,” he murmured, glancing at Rhodey out of the corner of his eye.

Rhodey smiled.

“That’s known to happen from time to time,” he said serenely. “And Tony? Whatever happened, whatever you’re planning- and yes, I know your plotting face, I’d recognise that expression anywhere- The point _is_, whatever you’re doing, you don’t have to do it alone, alright? I’ve got your back.”

_You gotta watch your back with this guy. There’s a chance he’s gonna break it._

Tony swallowed.

“Yeah,” he croaked, looking away. “Yeah, I know. You always do. But you worry too much, Rhodey-bear. I’m fine. I’m totally fine.”


End file.
